


Caesura

by holograms



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 03:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3835273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His voice sounds the same as Andrew remembers — it would take a lot longer than five years for him to forget the sharp staccato way an insult falls from his mouth in the perfect Fletcher-esque grace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caesura

**Author's Note:**

> From a prompt on tumblr; the prompt was: [_exes meeting again after not speaking for years au_.](http://acanofpeaches.tumblr.com/post/117556141607/andrew-and-fletcher-for-40)
> 
> Again I go to music vocabulary for titles. "In musical notation, a caesura denotes a brief, silent pause, during which metrical time is not counted."

“You look like shit,” he says.

His voice sounds the same as Andrew remembers — it would take a lot longer than five years for him to forget the sharp staccato way an insult falls from his mouth in the perfect Fletcher-esque grace.

It’s been five years since he’s seen Fletcher, since everything ended in a flurry of arrogance (Andrew’s fault) and spite (Fletcher’s fault) and self-righteousness (a fault of both). Andrew had wondered over the years what it would be like to see Fletcher again, and honestly it’s just awkward to run into an ex — an ex-conductor, ex-mentor, ex-whatever (because they weren’t the type to call each other _lovers_ and Andrew feels stupid for calling Fletcher a _boyfriend_ because he’s neither a boy nor a friend). Andrew knows that he isn’t wrong, and that he looks awful. Andrew knows he’s changed — carelessly missing meals has caused his body to thin out, which somehow makes him look even taller, accentuating his arms that hang awkwardly at his sides as if he doesn’t know what to do with them when he isn’t tirelessly attacking a drum kit. A permanent ache resides in his back that makes him hunch and slouch his shoulders (bad posture is something that Fletcher always hated, he remembers him jabbing him and yelling, _posture!_ ).

The drugs help. Fletcher knew Andrew did them back then but that was baby stuff compared to what he dances with now. They were a major component of the dissolution of the two of them, Fletcher demanding, _it’s either them or me_ , and Andrew — who hadn’t necessarily wanted either but (thought) he had _needed_ both — he had wished that Fletcher would make the choice for him like he did with everything else in his life.

(He did end up making a choice. He left.)

“You look shitty, too,” Andrew says, and it’s a lie. Fletcher looks remarkably indistinguishable as he did the last time he had seen him. For all that it matters, he could have been Shaffer-era Fletcher, so many years ago.

Andrew crosses his arms in front of his chest, a defense mechanism, and he hopes that Fletcher doesn’t notice his eyes getting glassy and red-rimmed, his telltale sign that tears are imminent. He cannot help himself — since he saw Fletcher across the room at this dingy jazz conference, emotions surged, a static timbre that buzzes in his ears until it drowns everything else out. He remembers things about Fletcher from before: the way he would sigh with frustration and look to Andrew when annoyed, the fact that he has a stash of not-so-jazz records stored away that he’d die if anybody else knew about, how he hogs the covers, how Andrew's body slots nicely against his and how Fletcher would place his chin on his shoulder and an arm lazily across his hip.

Fletcher shrugs. Andrew tries to say something but he chokes on a sob, and has to look away.

“So?” Fletcher asks.

Andrew glances back to him. It’s an offer, an open invitation. He imagines how easy it would be to slip back into their routine. He’s ready to jump, full-on, no parachute to stop him from crashing.

And yet—he hesitates.

“I…want to.” Andrew bites his lip. “I’ll try this time. I know I have to.”

And Fletcher grins. “Good. You’ve finally fucking figured it out.” He holds out his hand. “Let’s go.”

As he grabs his hand and leave together, Andrew realizes that it didn’t end. Fletcher was always there in the back of his mind, something that's been engraved into his veins. And of course Fletcher could never leave him alone, he is his _one_ after all.

Instead, it was more like a pause.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated.


End file.
